


now baby i believe

by jessalae



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Cock Rings, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, Idiots in Love, Insecurity, M/M, Mosaic Timeline (The Magicians: A Life in the Day), Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Quentin Coldwater's Canonical Oral Fixation, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:41:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26981566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessalae/pseuds/jessalae
Summary: So instead of thinking about hisfeelings, Eliot's focusing on the thing that should truly most concern Eliot Waugh, High King Of Hedonism And Spectacular Sex, Unburdened By Pesky Emotions: increasing the embarrassingly short amount of time it takes for Quentin to make him come.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 44
Kudos: 167





	now baby i believe

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Sylph for betaing!
> 
> Title from "Teenage Dream" by Katy Perry, because the Warblers cover of that song from Glee is my all time Quentin-and-Eliot-having-great-new-relationship-sex inspo song.

Of all the things that should absolutely not be true in this fucked-up backwards-ass fairy tale world, the one that bothers Eliot the most is that apparently here, Eliot needs to _work on his stamina_.

Admittedly that’s not _technically_ Fillory’s fault. He suspects that even if they were on Earth, or in the Neitherlands, or on fucking Jupiter, who knows, he’d still be having this problem, assuming the other circumstances remained the same. Specifically the circumstance in which the person he’s banging, who is shattering all of Eliot’s well-earned pride about his ability to last as long as his partners want and then some, is Quentin fucking Coldwater.

(In a roundabout way that _is_ probably Fillory’s fault, because if they weren’t stranded in the past in a one-room shack that could most charitably be described as _cozy_ , sharing a fucking _bed_ , for fuck’s sake — Quentin fucking Coldwater would certainly not be banging him. But they are, and he is, and Eliot is not going to look anywhere in the vicinity of that gift horse’s mouth.)

It was bad enough when Eliot thought it was only Quentin’s mouth that was the problem. The man is some kind of wizard at giving head. Eliot’s already made the joke about _I think we just found your discipline_ but he’s starting to _believe_ it. The way Quentin starts actually, physically drooling when he sees Eliot’s dick, the way he can take it _deep_ without complaining or choking, the way he picks up on every cue in Eliot’s body language and knows just when to ease off and lick the head like a damn lollipop so it’ll feel even better when he sucks the whole thing back down. Eliot’s tried closing his eyes so he at least can’t see those swollen, candy-pink lips wrapped around the base of his shaft, those puppy dog eyes gazing adoringly up at him as Quentin works the head of his cock into the back of his throat. It doesn’t help. Quentin still gets him off in record time, without fail.

But the surprises don’t stop at blowjobs, no. He wants Eliot to _fuck_ him. He wants it _desperately_ , he literally begs. His ass is round and perky and dusted with the perfect amount of hair, and he opens up so eagerly for Eliot’s fingers and then gets _tight_ around his cock, grinding on Eliot — somehow, no matter what position they’re in, he finds a way to grind, the squirmy little fuck — wringing shocked orgasms out of Eliot before he even really knows what’s happening.

Eliot feels out of control. He feels like he’s seventeen again and coming explosively in the alley behind a nightclub thirty seconds into the first actual, real handjob he’d received from an actual, real fellow gay man. He feels like the layers of aesthetic and attitude he’s been wrapping himself in for the better part of a decade are being peeled back, leaving him an exposed nerve, painful and shivering at the slightest touch. He feels— actually, that’s a large part of the problem right there, that he _feels_ an unbelievable amount about Quentin. And feelings just aren’t Eliot’s style. He really has no idea what to do with them.

So instead of thinking about any of that he’s focusing on the thing that should truly most concern Eliot Waugh, High King Of Hedonism And Spectacular Sex, Unburdened By Pesky Emotions: increasing the embarrassingly short amount of time it takes for Quentin to make him come.

—

The first and easiest idea in his playbook is to simply take the edge off by himself beforehand, so when they get down to business it’ll already be round two for him. This backfires fairly spectacularly thanks to their living situation. Eliot tries to be quiet, keep his motions to a minimum. He really does. But it turns out that even he is not subtle enough to jerk off while sharing a double-sized-at-best bed with someone and not have them notice.

“El?” Quentin mutters, rolling over in his sleep to face Eliot. “W’timesit?”

Eliot freezes and breathes carefully through his nose so when he speaks, he hopefully won’t sound like he’s got his hard dick in his hand. “Too early,” he manages. “Go back to sleep.”

“Mm,” Quentin says. Eliot waits, watching his lovely face go slack again, his lips part slightly as he sinks back into dreamland. Eliot exhales and goes back to it, pulling at his cock with short little strokes, sliding his foreskin over his cockhead over and over and feeling himself drift closer to the edge—

And then there’s warm breath against his cheek and a voice in his ear, rough with sleep and a little hurt: “Didn’t want to wait for me to wake up?”

Eliot shudders, annoyed at getting caught but also, Quentin is kissing his jaw, biting his earlobe, _fuck_. “I didn’t want to disturb you, baby,” he says, letting go of his dick and rolling to meet Quentin’s mouth with his own, kiss him to reassure him. “Also I fucked you pretty hard last night, figured you’d be sore.”

“I am,” Quentin says, and smiles against Eliot’s lips. “It’s _great_.”

Jesus. Eliot’s cock twitches. “Right. So, given that, when I woke up hard, I thought I’d just take care of it myself.”

“You don’t have to fuck me, I can suck you off instead,” Quentin suggests. “Or—” He reaches across the scant inches between their bodies, wraps his sturdy fingers around Eliot’s dick.

Eliot leans into his grip, unable to help himself. He runs his fingers through Quentin’s hair. “You don’t have to,” he says, nearly choking on the words as Quentin rolls Eliot’s balls in his other palm. “Just because— _fuck_ — we don’t, ah.” He can’t even finish a fucking sentence. Perhaps Quentin isn’t just a blowjob wizard, perhaps this is all part of a larger, more sinister spell to turn Eliot _into_ Quentin. “Sometimes we’re still going to, god, jerk ourselves off, and that’s okay. Oh, yes—”

“I want to make you feel good, though,” Quentin says. He nuzzles into Eliot’s neck. A night’s worth of scruff scrapes the tender skin of Eliot’s throat, followed by that _mouth_ , sucking and biting. “I know I’m probably not as good at this as you are, obviously—”

“Jesus _fucking_ oh my _god_ —”

“—right, I mean handjobs are never as good as just, doing it yourself—”

“Fuck, Q—”

“—since you have like, years and years of experience getting yourself off—”

“God— _god_ —”

“—but I fucking can’t get enough of you, El.” Quentin’s sucked what will certainly be an impressive hickey into the side of Eliot’s neck, and now he’s talking against that spot, tongue flicking out every once in a while to caress the bruised skin, his words vibrating up into Eliot’s skull and down his spine to his balls, heavy and tight, fuck— “You’re so fucking gorgeous, you drive me fucking insane, every chance I get to put my hands on you I want to so badly. I can’t believe—” His thumb is rubbing circles over Eliot’s perineum, his hand has not stopped moving on Eliot’s cock. “It’s surreal that you’re letting me do this, so fucking good to me. Please, let me, please, I want to—”

Eliot, who is far beyond the realm of words and into the land of embarrassing whimpering, comes sobbing, hot streaks over Quentin’s hand and his own belly as Quentin strokes him through it, whispering in Eliot’s ear, “So fucking beautiful— can’t get enough— _fuck_ , El, just watching this is getting me so hard—”

So that didn’t work. 

Sure, when they go back for round two later in the day, Eliot lasts a much more respectable amount of time, and Quentin comes first, gasping and yanking on Eliot’s hair as Eliot licks over his hole again and again and pumps his cock in time with the motions of his tongue. But it’s not exactly a victory. Quentin not only foiled his plan, he took Eliot apart like a fucking pro while still half-asleep.

Eliot Waugh, High King Of Giving It So Good Grown Men Cry Tears Of Joy, will not admit defeat just because his (friend, housemate, fuck buddy, who knows) is a goddamn handjob wizard. He will not. He has more tricks up his sleeve.

—

Attempt number two at resolving this problem is something they would have gotten around to anyway, eventually, but Eliot moves it up his projected timeline. It’s perfect: less direct stimulation on his dick, excellent for Quentin, something Eliot enjoys just fine but doesn’t absolutely _have_ to have in his life. Eliot’s sure this will work.

“I have a request,” he murmurs in Quentin’s ear, holding him tight as Quentin presses his face into Eliot’s chest, simmering with frustration and disappointment at yet another week gone by with no success on the puzzle. “For when you’re feeling better.”

“Yeah?”

“Would you fuck me?”

Quentin lifts his head so fast he nearly cracks his skull against Eliot’s chin. “ _Would_ I,” he says, “are you _kidding_ me, of course I would. You’re serious?”

Eliot lets a slow smile spread across his face. “Very.”

Quentin lunges up at him, kissing him so hard Eliot’s lip gets caught between their teeth, and not in a sexy way. “Ow,” he mutters into Quentin’s mouth, because a little pain isn’t enough to keep him from kissing this sweet boy absolutely any time he wants to be kissed.

“Sorry,” Quentin says, pulling back in a panic. “Sorry— oh, shit, El, you’re bleeding.”

“Huh,” Eliot says, licking his bottom lip and yep, there’s the metallic tang of blood. “It’s nothing. It’ll close up in a moment.”

“Sorry,” Quentin says yet again. His face falls. “Is it— are you really sure it’s a good idea for me to uh, top? If I can’t— I mean, I just made you bleed by _kissing_ you too hard. What if I hurt you?”

“You won’t,” Eliot says, and means it.

“But—”

“No buts,” Eliot says, putting a finger over Quentin’s lips. “Well, one but. My butt.” Quentin rolls his eyes mightily, but his mouth twitches towards a smile. “I want this.”

Before Eliot knows what’s happening, Quentin’s perfect pink lips have opened and he’s sucked Eliot’s finger into his mouth, taking it deep, swirling his tongue around it. Eliot moans, caught off guard as always by the _mouth_ on this boy, _Christ_.

“Q,” he gasps, and Quentin moans around his finger and sucks hard. “Quentin. Fuck.” Eliot’s getting hard already.

Quentin’s mouth comes off his finger with an audible _pop_. “Don’t mind if I do,” he says, the fucking dork, and dives in to start kissing his way up Eliot’s neck to the corner of his jaw, the sensitive spot right under his ear.

“I—” Eliot tries, and has to start again as Quentin’s hands slide from his waist down to his ass and _grab_ , squeezing. “I meant, oh. Later.” Quentin hums against Eliot’s Adam’s apple. Eliot can feel the heat of Quentin’s growing erection very clearly through his baggy Fillorian pants. “You don’t need to bend me over the table out here and take me right this second.”

Quentin makes an indescribably sexy noise, his fingers tightening on Eliot’s ass again. “I could, though. Or. Can I?”

Eliot swallows hard and extricates himself enough to cup Quentin’s face in both hands. “We should eat dinner first,” he says. 

“Yeah,” Quentin says reluctantly. His mouth is the perfect pout, full and pink and kissable, but Eliot is being the responsible one today, apparently. “But after?”

“After,” Eliot promises, smoothing Quentin’s hair back away from his face where it’s escaped from its bun. “Although if you do have your heart set on bending me over the table out here, I’ll need to brush up on my concealment charms first. We don’t need to put on a show for the neighbors.”

“Our nearest neighbor is half an hour away, Eliot,” Quentin says as they gather their paper and chalk and head inside. “Nobody would see or hear anything.”

“Our nearest _human_ neighbor is half an hour away. The squirrels are more like fifty feet away.”

“They’re _squirrels_.”

“ _Talking_ squirrels,” Eliot says. He uncovers the pot of barley, sticks a spoon in it to try a few grains and check that it’s done. “I’m into plenty of kinky stuff, but performing live-action porn for sentient woodland animals isn’t really my thing.”

“Would they even find it sexy to watch humans fuck?” Quentin asks. “Wait. What kind of kinky stuff?”

Eliot laughs. “Go get me the cheese from the cold store. And pick me some thyme from the garden.”

“We’re gonna come back to that question,” Quentin says over his shoulder as he follows instructions. “Sooner or later. I’m going to find out.”

Eliot is already busy slicing foraged mushrooms to fry off and eat with the barley. “Oh, you will,” he says under his breath, even though Quentin can’t possibly hear him from outside. “Once I get my act together with the basics, you will.”

Quentin is _vibrating_ with nerves by the time the last dinner dish is put away, but they’re the happy, excited kind of nerves, not the _my world is collapsing out from under me_ kind of nerves. Eliot calms him down with some nice leisurely making out, then pushes him onto the bed and sucks his dick, also leisurely, sliding his tongue up and down Quentin’s length until Quentin is groaning and rock hard. Only then will he let them move on to the main event.

Eliot starts to get comfy on all fours to give Quentin the best leverage and the easiest view to line himself up, but Quentin says, “No, can you— will you turn over? I want to see you.”

Eliot’s dick, already pleasantly fattened up from the intoxicating experience of sucking Quentin’s cock, goes achingly hard between his legs. “I can,” he says. “I’m just, I’m kind of tall, it can be hard to get the angles right.”

Quentin snorts. “Kind of tall, right. You’re the High King of Understatements. Come on, El.” He runs both hands down the plane of Eliot’s back, grabs at Eliot’s hips. “I want to see you,” he repeats. “I need to know I’m not hurting you.”

“You won’t,” Eliot says again, but— how is he supposed to say no to the sweetest fucking request he’s maybe ever gotten from a partner? So he rolls over and splays his legs on either side of Quentin. Quentin’s eyes are dark with want, his cock dark pink and still wet with Eliot’s spit, standing tall against his belly. Eliot wants so badly to stroke himself, since the scene in front of him is absolutely straight out of a wet dream, but the point here is to _last_. He’s going to last. He’s going to make this so fucking good for Quentin.

Eliot brings his hands over his belly, does the familiar series of tuts they use for cleaning and preparation. He shivers as he feels himself stretching out, slick with conjured lube, open and ready. He lifts his feet, pulling his knees back towards his chest, the fucking dirtiest, most animalistic invitation he can possibly give.

Quentin makes a sharp noise, staring down at Eliot’s asshole. Then his mouth quirks to the side a little. “Aww,” he says, trailing two fingers down the back of Eliot’s thigh, across to tease across the rim of Eliot’s hole. “I wanted to open you up.”

Eliot’s whole body jolts. _Fuck_ that’s hotter than it has any right to be. “Easier this way,” he says. He’s already losing the ability to complete a sentence. “Less for you to worry about.”

“Yeah,” Quentin says. His fingers are still teasing Eliot’s hole, almost but not quite pushing in, making little lube-wet noises. “But it’s not just about the physical side, right?” His face is so _earnest_ , as achingly open as Eliot’s heart feels right now. “There’s the connection part of it, too. So I can show you I’m gonna be careful.” His fingers press forward, sinking smoothly into Eliot’s ass. Oh, fuck, _fuck_ , that’s good.

“I know,” Eliot gasps, trying not to clamp down on Quentin’s fingers, stroking slow and deep inside him. “I know, fuck, I know you’ll be careful, Q.”

“Yeah, but. I still want to show you.” Quentin leans his head to the side a little, presses a soft kiss to the inside of Eliot’s knee as he continues fingering him. “I want to make it so good. You make it so fucking good for me, I have to return the favor.”

Eliot’s brilliant plan is unraveling before his eyes, as a coil of heat unspools low in his belly. Quentin’s fingertips smooth across his prostate, and his cock twitches, precome oozing from his slit. “Please fuck me,” he begs, a desperate attempt to keep this from going entirely off the rails. “Please. Please. Fucking, Quentin, fuck me, please fucking put your dick in me—”

“God that’s fucking hot,” Quentin says breathlessly, but thank god he does what Eliot’s begging him to do and stretches himself over Eliot’s body, nestling his slim hips in between Eliot’s thighs. Before he pushes in, he slides his erection along Eliot’s crack, over his balls, thrusting experimentally a couple of times.

Eliot’s hands are shaking where he’s gripping his own thighs, holding himself open as Quentin erotically tortures him. “Q, _please_.”

Quentin makes a broken-off noise and does the lube conjuration spell over his dick so fast his fingers are a blur. Then he’s finally, Jesus fuck, pressing into Eliot, his dick stretching Eliot open inch by glorious inch. Eliot’s head drops back onto the pillows. He can’t look at Quentin’s expression, equal parts focused and overwhelmed. He can’t, he’s already much closer than he’d like to be, and he needs to _last_.

That strategy doesn’t work either, as Quentin worms a hand behind Eliot’s neck and tips his head up. “Look at me,” he gasps, and Eliot’s cock jumps, leaks even more precome against Eliot’s stomach. He’s never been wet like this with anyone else, this is _insane_. “Gotta see you, need to know— I need to make it good for you, I want to see— tell me if it’s good, please—”

Eliot spasms as Quentin’s hips starting working, fucking deep into him, and how, _how_ had Eliot failed to notice that Quentin’s cock is exactly the right size and curve to hit his prostate on every stroke? Eliot’s fingers are going to leave bruises on his own thighs, his whole body is taut with pleasure. He’s straining, trying not to let go, not to let Quentin’s cock drilling into him send him over the edge. He sinks his teeth into his lip, trying to distract himself.

Quentin _stops_ fucking him and Eliot gasps in a huge breath. “Are you okay?” Quentin asks. His eyes are huge and brown and Eliot’s falling into them. “That face, are you— is it okay?”

“Quentin,” Eliot says, unable to wrap his brain around anything but those two syllables. “Quentin.” He nods frantically, but Quentin doesn’t start fucking him again yet. “I’m okay, it’s good, it’s— so good.” _Too good_ , he doesn’t say, trying not to tip his hand.

Quentin draws back and then _pushes_ in again, wringing a strangled moan from the depths of Eliot’s chest as his cock _drags_ across Eliot’s prostate. “Tell me,” he breathes as he starts up again. “Please, tell me, I need to know—”

It’s impossible how fucking hot this is. Eliot is _right there_ , his skin singing, balls tight and hot and it’s, he can’t, if he says anything that’ll be the end — but Quentin looks nervous, his forehead creased with worry, and Eliot can’t have that.

“It’s so good,” Eliot grits out, “so— fuck, oh my god, your cock feels _so good_ —”

Quentin _whines_ and fucks Eliot steadily, endlessly, and says, “Yes— want to make you come—” and reaches a hand between them and palms Eliot’s dick, sliding his foreskin up over the head and Eliot’s in freefall, he’s coming fucking _everywhere_ , Quentin’s cock pushing against his prostate and making him pulse and shudder over and over again. “Fuck,” Quentin says, strangled, “Yes, come for me, I can fucking _feel it_ , oh my _god_.”

It takes a good minute of continued fucking for Eliot to remember, through the haze of pleasure and Quentin’s fucking _monologue_ of unbelievably hot nonsense as he works his way up to his own orgasm, that he had a goal in mind here and he has extremely not achieved it. It takes him about an hour after they’re all done, with Quentin snoring adorably against his shoulder, to actually _regret_ that he didn’t achieve it. 

But the regret does set in, eventually. This can’t continue. Eliot Waugh, High King Of Making The Question ‘Was It Good For You’ Irrelevant Because Obviously It Was, isn’t about to be outdone by a tiny nerd with an inhumanly perfect cock and a talent for dirty talk. There’s got to be something else he can try.

—

“Are you sure this is safe?” Quentin asks uneasily. 

“It’s completely safe,” Eliot says. He makes sure the soft strip of leather is laying flat against his skin, all the way around, no twists or knots. “I’ve used cock rings before, everything was fine. The ones I used happened to be made of silicone, not leather, but there are leather ones.”

“Even the leather ones are probably made by like, professional sex toy makers,” Quentin says. “Not amateurs with a strip cut out of a worn-out messenger bag.”

“People DIY stuff like this all the time,” Eliot reassures him. He finishes tying the makeshift cock ring under his balls and over the top of his shaft, pulling it just the right amount of snug, then he cups Quentin’s skeptical face in both hands. “I’m not going to hurt myself. Okay? If I get uncomfortable at all I’ll take it off.”

“You’d better.” A mischievous smile spreads across Quentin’s face. “Your dick is your best feature, I don’t know what I would do if it got messed up.”

Eliot thinks he swoops in for a kiss quickly enough that Quentin can’t see his expression flicker, but Quentin only kisses back for a second before he’s gently pushing Eliot away, extricating himself. “You know that was a joke, right?” he asks. “Your dick is not your best feature. It’s maybe not even top ten.”

“Interesting strategy, Coldwater,” Eliot drawls. “Insulting my dick right before we get down to business.”

“I’m not insulting your dick, I’m complimenting your everything else.”

“Certainly _sounded_ like an insult.”

“It was _not_ — I _really fucking like_ your dick, you know that. I have made it, fucking, _abundantly_ clear how much I like it.” 

“If you say so.” Eliot laughs, delighted, at Quentin’s expression, a unique mixture of outrage and horniness.

“Look—” Quentin’s voice drops in pitch a little, and he very deliberately lets his tongue slip out and slide along his lower lip. Eliot makes a pleased noise, and his dick gets that little bit harder, moving from half-hard towards ready-to-go. “I’m gonna show you how much I like it. Lie down.”

“Bossy,” Eliot says as he follows instructions. 

Quentin smirks at him, then as soon as Eliot’s settled on his back, he grabs both of Eliot’s hands in his. As he leans forward, he draws Eliot’s hands up towards his head until Eliot’s fingers are threaded firmly through his hair, right where Quentin likes them. He licks a broad stripe up the underside of Eliot’s cock. Eliot makes a happy noise low in his chest. He’s nice and hard already, and with the cock ring in place, he’ll stay that way for a good long time.

What happens next is that Eliot gets overconfident. He hasn’t actually used cock rings for quite this specific reason before — again, this has _never_ been a problem before, with anyone else — but he’s definitely heard they’re excellent at delaying orgasms. He’s even heard you almost can’t come until you take them off, if you’ve got a good enough one. So he lets himself relax and enjoy the moment, as Quentin teases his tongue all up and down the length of his dick, sucks on just the head for a bit, then goes for it and takes him down deep, until Eliot’s shaking from the pleasure of Quentin’s throat clenching tight and hot around him.

It all feels good — _so_ good — and still, Eliot isn’t worried, because he has the cock ring on. He’s golden. He fingers Quentin open slowly, fisting his own cock all the while just to enjoy how fucking hard it feels in his hand (and to drive Quentin crazy with jealousy). Then he finally settles between Quentin’s legs, pausing for a long, sloppy kiss, and sinks into the incredible heat and pressure of Quentin’s ass.

“Oh my— my _fucking_ , Christ, fuck,” Quentin says, his head thrown back, leaving his beautiful throat bare for Eliot to kiss and lick to his heart’s content. “Eliot it’s so fucking— _big_ , god, ah—”

“Same size as always,” Eliot murmurs against Quentin’s pulse point.

“—so _hard_ , fuck, I’m so fucking full of you—”

Eliot fucks deeper into Quentin’s perfect ass, letting him grind up onto Eliot’s dick, clench down so the drag out is nearly as good as the slide in. His heart is pounding as hard as Quentin’s is, this is _good_ , it’s so good, having Quentin under him moaning, beautiful and desperate, every sound a bolt of arousal straight to Eliot’s dick, to the liquid heat building at the base of Eliot’s spine, ready to come to a boil.

“You just keep making it better, I can’t, I’ve never had sex like this, ever, you’re fucking— _amazing_ —”

Quentin’s sturdy hands are tugging on Eliot’s curls. His strong legs are wrapped around Eliot’s thighs, pressing Eliot further inside him. He’s electric, a storm of pure sex appeal condensed into the shape of a human, everything Eliot’s ever wanted in a partner and then some, physically and emotionally, he’s fucking— perfect—

“Oh shit,” Eliot gasps, and comes so hard he sees stars.

Quentin grates out a “Fuck, _yes_ ” as Eliot’s come pulses into him, arching his back, holding Eliot inside him with his heels dug into the backs of Eliot’s thighs. “Can you please, stay, stay a second, jerk me off,” he whispers when Eliot rejoins the world of the living a few heartbeats later. “Please, I wanna come with you in me. All filled up with your dick and your come—”

Eliot whines, wishing with every fiber of his being that he was capable of multiple orgasms, because that would fucking do it right there. Somehow he gets his shaking arms under control enough to wrap his hand around Quentin’s dick, hard and twitching between their bodies. When Quentin comes a minute or two later, keening, Eliot is right there with him in spirit if not in body, making broken noises into Quentin’s shoulder as Quentin’s ass spasms around his oversensitive dick.

Quentin finally lets Eliot pull out once the aftershocks have faded entirely, and they take off the cock ring and clean up and settle down to sleep. They’re both exhausted, but Quentin is at least happily exhausted, tucking himself against Eliot’s chest and falling into the peaceful sleep that only an enormous orgasm can induce. Eliot, in contrast, feels defeated. Wrung out. He’s tried everything he can think of, and it still hasn’t been enough. Here he is, fucking a boy who deserves nothing but the absolute best, who Eliot wants to please and take good care of more than he’s ever wanted anything — and he can’t.

Eliot Waugh, High King Of Snatching Defeat From The Jaws Of Victory, High King Of Never Being Quite Enough For The Things He Truly Wants, sighs and closes his eyes and tries to follow his partner into sleep.

—

Quentin sits back on his heels, his big brown eyes full of concern and confusion. “Um. Should I— do you want me to keep going? I can, it’s fine—”

Eliot buries his face in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he says, muffled. “Come up here, come on. Kiss me.”

Quentin crawls up next to Eliot, peels one of Eliot’s hands away from his face to find his mouth and kiss him as requested. He’s so sweet, and so good, and Eliot could not be fucking this up harder if he tried.

“Um,” Quentin says, smoothing his hand over Eliot’s forehead. “So I know this like. Happens to everyone. Really, it does, it’s a cliche for a reason. It’s definitely— I mean, I’ve. It happens.”

“Yeah,” Eliot sighs. It doesn’t happen to Eliot. It’s _never_ happened to Eliot, no matter how many strange substances he stuffed into this miserable body. Okay, once, but he’d just pulled an all-nighter, none of his other body parts had been working correctly either. And now it’s happened three times in the past four days.

“Are you—?” Quentin stops, screws up his mouth in thought. “Is everything okay?” When Eliot doesn’t answer right away, he continues, in a small voice, “If it’s— if you want to stop, um. Having sex. I’m, that’s okay.”

“No,” Eliot says, as forcefully as he possibly can. “No, god, Q—”

“But if it’s me, um—” Quentin draws in a shuddering breath. “It wouldn’t be the first time. That someone’s. Not actually been that into it. I mean, feelings change—”

“Jesus, no,” Eliot says, mentally kicking himself. The only thing in twenty-five years of life that’s even remotely worked for him, and he’s destroying it because his fucking dick won’t cooperate with him. He grabs the back of Quentin’s neck, drags him in for a deep kiss. Maybe if he kisses him hard enough, he can just— convey, somehow, that Quentin is not the problem. That Quentin is the opposite of a problem.

When he finally lets Quentin up for air, he says, “This is not because of you. I do _not_ want to stop having sex. All right?”

“Okay,” Quentin says, shakily. “Okay. But—”

“It’s me,” Eliot says. He swallows hard. “I keep getting all up in my head, and. I want to— this has to be good for you. I need to make it good.”

Quentin looks at him incredulously. “Eliot, I’ve tried to tell you, this is— _astounding_. It’s blowing my fucking mind.”

“It’s still not up to my standards.” 

“Well— again, if it’s me—”

“My standards for _myself_ ,” Eliot clarifies hurriedly. “There are— some things that I expect from myself, that I can’t seem to accomplish.”

“But if I’m telling you that it’s good, it’s amazing, then there’s nothing else you need to— accomplish, right?” Quentin pushes himself up on one elbow, clearly getting into an arguing mood. “It’s good, El. It’s more than good. If it was any better I think we’d die of starvation because I would _never_ let you out of this bed. I really—” he takes in a deep breath. “I love— everything you do for me. You can just. Can that be enough for you?”

Eliot’s head is spinning from the wave of dizziness that surged over him when Quentin started a sentence with the words _I love_ , so of course he loses control of his mouth and blurts out, “Not when I can’t last more than a couple minutes with you.”

Quentin stares at him. “Wait, what?” he asks. “Are you— I haven’t really noticed— you’re not finishing faster than most people I’ve slept with, I don’t think? And honestly, even if you were, that wouldn't be like, a _problem_. It’s hot as _fuck_ when you come.”

“It’s _embarrassing_ ,” Eliot snaps, since apparently he’s admitting to everything he never wanted to admit to today. “I’m supposed to be the experienced one. I’m supposed to be _good_ at this.”

Quentin scrubs a hand across his face, rubs at his temple with his fingertips. “God. Okay. You fucking _are_ good at this. I don’t— how can I make you believe me? What’s the magic word, here? I like making you come. I don’t care when you do it. I actually, um.” He tips his head down to rest against Eliot’s shoulder. “I’m mostly just really happy that I can even make you come at all? Let alone faster than you’re used to? Isn’t that like, the point of sex, getting off?”

“In some respects,” Eliot says, “if you’re particularly goal-oriented. For me it’s more about making my partner feel good.”

“Oh,” Quentin says, lifting his head. Eliot looks over at him: he looks weirdly guilty. “This is maybe. It might be a little bit about me, then, actually? Because I’m, um. I guess I’ve been trying really hard, to make you come?”

Eliot blinks. “You have?” He’d been assuming it was all raw sexual talent, what Quentin did in bed. It had never occurred to him that there was _strategy_ behind it.

“Yeah,” Quentin says, and— is he _blushing_? Not that that’s an uncommon sight, but Eliot’s the one who should be uncomfortable in this conversation. “I really want to make sure you do. I know you can’t fake the way, um, girls can, but it’s just kind of a thing for me.”

“Oh,” Eliot says. A strange spike of emotion runs through him, relief and desire and anger at whichever past partner of Quentin’s made him so insecure about this. He kisses Quentin to buy himself time to think, and as he sinks into the kiss, Quentin’s mouth opening for his tongue, his breath soft against Eliot’s lips, he feels calmer than he has in days. This isn’t all Eliot’s inadequacy; at least some of it is Quentin’s hyper-adequacy. He can work with that.

Quentin leans into him, pressing their bare chests together, licking hungrily into Eliot’s mouth. Eliot lets him climb on top of him so they can make out at a less awkward angle. Quentin is straddling his hips, his soft dick resting gently against Eliot’s. He runs sturdy fingers through Eliot’s chest hair.

Eventually he draws back and says, “So uh, if you want to last longer, I can maybe. Tone it down a little, I guess.” He kisses Eliot’s jaw. “Draw things out. As long as you’ll still have a good time.”

“Quentin,” Eliot says, reaching up to tangle his hands in Quentin’s hair, “I can fucking guarantee that.”

And he very much does. He has a good time as Quentin kisses him thoroughly, their dicks becoming gradually less and less soft. He enjoys himself immensely as Quentin kisses his way down and picks up where he left off earlier, sucking gently on Eliot’s balls as he strokes Eliot all the way hard. He moans in delight as Quentin gives him a _thorough_ blowjob, lavishing his attention on Eliot’s dick, not leaving a millimeter of its length unlicked, then stops before Eliot comes and lets Eliot switch their positions around and suck Quentin’s gorgeous dick for a while too.

“El,” Quentin breathes, almost reverent, his fingers combing Eliot’s curls into irredeemable disarray. “What do you want? What can I do for you?”

Eliot shudders, his mouth still full of Quentin’s cock. He bobs his head a few more times before he answers, considering, and enjoys Quentin’s little gasps. This feels more like the sex Eliot’s used to, pleasurable and passionate without the desperation he’s had with Quentin so far. He kind of misses the desperation. But he also feels — comfortable. Warm, internally, beyond the heat of his skin where he’s flushed with arousal. Normally at this point he would probably transition into fucking his partner, but somehow, despite the egregious perfection of Quentin’s ass, that’s not what he wants most right now.

“Here,” he says, and crawls up Quentin’s body, settling them side by side. Quentin gasps again when Eliot wraps a hand around both their dicks together. He attempts to kiss Eliot, ends up mostly moaning against the corner of Eliot’s mouth as Eliot starts moving his hand.

“Is this good?” Eliot whispers. Their faces are so close together. Quentin is flushed, radiating heat. He clings to Eliot’s shoulder, fingers digging in, kisses Eliot desperately. Eliot kisses back, his heart pounding in his chest. The rhythm makes his hand move faster over their cocks to keep the beat. Quentin’s so _hard_ , wet with Eliot’s spit, panting hotly into Eliot’s mouth. He throws his top leg over Eliot’s thigh, hitching their hips closer together.

Eliot wants to hear him, wants that beautiful mouth overflowing with words. He sucks on Quentin’s lip, then murmurs into his mouth, “Look down. Look at us.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Eliot,” Quentin moans, but he follows directions like the good boy he is (and _that_ thought is setting off some sparks in Eliot’s brain, he’ll need to return to it later) and looks down their bodies. “Fuck,” he says, his hips jerking against Eliot’s. “That’s so fucking hot— god, your dick is so nice.” He laughs to himself a little. “I’m fucking _drooling_ looking at it. Feels so hard, and— hot, fuck, and your— your hands are just ridiculously huge, like, how, _god_ yes squeeze like that—”

Eliot buries his face in the side of Quentin’s neck. Every place their skin touches, chests and legs and cocks and Eliot’s cheek against Quentin’s pulse, Eliot is tingling, vibrating with need. He’s on the precipice, holding himself back out of habit — and Quentin’s still talking: “How is every way you touch me so _fucking good_ , fuck, I’m so, please, I wanna see that fucking huge dick come all over me, can you— please, god—”

Eliot lets go, giving himself over to the pleasure and letting the slide of his hand and Quentin’s cock and Quentin’s words drive him over the edge, coming — as requested — all over Quentin, all over his own hand and their two cocks, gasping into Quentin’s neck. Somehow he manages to keep his hand moving, his come slicking the way for him to jerk Quentin off faster, wetter, and Quentin’s right behind him, groaning “god, _yes_ ” and thrusting into Eliot’s hand as he adds to the white mess on their bellies.

They’re sweaty and sticky and panting, a complete tangled mess. If Eliot could avoid ever untangling them, he thinks he would. He kisses Quentin’s neck, his shoulder, little brief touches as they come down from it, and Quentin returns the favor by curling further into him, basically purring at every touch.

Eventually Quentin says, “Is there like, an automatic cleanup spell we can use? Or invent? That would sense when we’re done and get rid of all the come without us actually having to _move_?”

“You seem to have mistaken me for someone who ever paid attention in any class,” Eliot says fondly.

“Yeah,” Quentin sighs. “Okay, we’re gonna get all crusty, so—”

“Yeah—”

They do their usual cleanup and settle right back into each other’s arms, Eliot pulling the blankets up over them with a little tug of telekinesis.

“So was that up to your own ridiculous standards for yourself?” Quentin asks. “I wasn’t exactly _timing_ , but I think it was longer.”

“It was longer,” Eliot says. “Not quite up to my normal expectations. I may have to live with it, though.” He waves a hand. “Perils of sleeping with a secret sex wizard.”

Quentin rolls his eyes. “I’m not a sex wizard.”

“That’s precisely what a secret sex wizard would say.”

“I still don’t think it’s anything I’m specifically _doing_ ,” Quentin says. “It could be— chemistry, kind of? Like, when you’re sleeping with someone you really, really like— or that just, gets you. That can make it better. You know?”

“Yeah,” Eliot says, nodding, as if he knows anything of the sort. Sex has always been — a thing he loves to do, a thing he’s great at. He can count on one hand the people he’s slept with who he’s really, really liked — and as for the people he’s slept with who truly _get_ him, well. One of them is somewhere in the future, holding her kingdom together by the skin of her teeth, and the other is in this bed with him right now. “I do really, really like you.”

Quentin snuggles closer, tucking his head under Eliot’s chin. “Glad to hear it,” he says. “I really, really like you, too.”

Eliot Waugh, High King Of Saying Almost What He Means But Not Quite — High King Of Emotional Cowardice, But Maybe That’s Okay For Now, Maybe He’ll Figure Out How To Be Braver Tomorrow—

—draws Quentin against him and hopes this feeling will last as long as it possibly can.


End file.
